


Retrospect: Remember

by ohhaypsy



Series: Your Name Is [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Dissociation, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 11:11:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18387278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohhaypsy/pseuds/ohhaypsy
Summary: If you know how to do anything, it's remember.The inside of Agent Washington's head during Reconstruction.Follow-up todon't leave mebut can be read as a standalone.





	Retrospect: Remember

**Author's Note:**

> The inside of Wash's head is so sad, y'all.
> 
> Sort of sequel to [don't leave me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16067945) but works as a standalone I'm pretty sure. CarWash siblings is vaguely implied, but it's so barely there I didn't bother to tag it.
> 
> Lots of lines lifted from Reconstruction, with a lot of help from [Rooster Tooths.](http://roostertooths.com/index.php)
> 
> This isn't just a rewriting of Reconstruction, I promise. But I realize not everyone has watched that season as many times as I have, so if anything is confusing to follow, _please_ let me know.

You spend two years of your life in a hospital against your will. A danger to yourself and others. Two years later, they release you. Uncertified Article 12. Because they still have a use for you.

You tell yourself you're biding your time. But the truth is, you have no way of going after the Director, no way to even try to _start_ taking down Project Freelancer. And until you do, you have nowhere to go _(no one wants you.)_ So you keep working, waiting for the opportune moment.

It's fucked up, how used to seeing familiar dead bodies you get. Even if they aren't your friends _(your family,)_ they're still your fellow Freelancers. But as always, you do your duty. You follow the recovery beacon, find the dead agent, collect any and all PFL equipment, destroy the corpse. It's fucking _routine,_ and you wonder what it says about you that you don't flinch. Or feel much of anything.

Even when you find York's body.

_'Not bad for an old locksmith.'_

It's the fifth one in just this month. And the first one that had been a member of your squad.

There's a pain in your chest that you push back with everything else, boarding it up alongside memories of York, his jokes and his smiles and the fact that he jumped ship with Texas.

 _'Are you Agent Washington?'_

You collect his healing unit along with Delta, and as you insert his chip, even if it's just into your storage unit, you bury the panic with everything else. You've gotten quite good at that, even if it's only during your waking hours.

In a strange way, the firefight is a welcome distraction from the fact that you just planted a timed charge on your friend's body.

Five freelancers. Four comrades and one _friend._ And then your recovery beacon goes off again and you wonder who you've lost now.

It's North. Because of fucking _course_ it is. Because you cared about him and that's how your life fucking works. You remember his hand on your shoulder as he checked in on you, the way he was the _heart_ of your family, the way he took care of Theta, of _you--_

You lock him away with York. South is still here, and you have a job to do.

_'...I have to take care of your brother now, South. You might not want to watch this part.'_

You haven't seen South since the Mother of Invention crashed. You wonder if she or North looked for you, if they ever asked after you. They were the ones who were there the first time you woke up after Epsilon was removed, waiting for you in Recovery. Even with South's explosive temper, she was still your friend, and you think of the times you'd catch her in a rare good mood, and she'd throw her head back and laugh, clap you on the shoulder when you finally managed the disarm technique she'd been trying to show you--

One month. Four comrades. Three friends.

Not this time.

_'You're dead now. Remember that.'_

Epsilon would be proud. You're attempting to slip your leash.

But that doesn't change the fact that someone, some _thing,_ is after you.

You'd had your suspicions, and North's body is enough evidence to confirm them for you. Something is killing Freelancers, stealing their AI and equipment. York must have been a fluke; whatever it was must have been circling like a vulture, and you just happened to have the good fortune to get to Delta first.

But it's scented blood, yours and South's both, and it knows you've got Delta. You need to move.

The most important thing is protecting South. You've lost two friends, you're not going to lose another. You give her Delta, tell her to get to the ship, you'll hold this thing off. You're already injured, and you quietly make peace with the fact that there's a good chance you'll die here.

_'On my mark: sync.'_

_'But--'_

_'Sync!'_

_'Sync!'_

_'Move!'_

Pain explodes in your back, and as the world starts to go black, you start hallucinating, because you could swear you see a familiar gold, rounded visor.

Your name is Agent Washington. And you're being left for dead.

Again.

\--

You don't know why you're still alive. That thing had the perfect opportunity to claim York's healing unit, and if it wanted to be merciful, it could have just shot you in the head and put you out of your misery, rather than leaving you to bleed out.

But it didn't do either of those things. It left the healing unit to keep you stable until you could be recovered. South's bullets had barely missed your spine, but still did enough damage to make you spend three months in the care of doctors, and another six relearning how to walk.

The universe must still have a use for you. God knows Project Freelancer still does.

\--

It's routine again. Follow the beacon. Find the dead agent. Collect equipment. Destroy the corpse. The memories still follow you, but you lock them up tight with the others, with the rest of your failures. You barricade away the colors of armor, the sounds of laughter, the reminders that you are now _alone,_ more than you've ever been before.

You don't see another dead friend. Though at this point, you're not sure you'd recognize them.

It's not often that you're pulled in for a specialized mission, and you'd wonder why they called you if you cared enough. You'll follow orders, like a good soldier. The last time you resisted didn't end well, after all.

You lean against the wall, only half listening to the private's report. Simulation bullshit gone wrong; it wouldn't be the first time. It sounds like your mission will be the same after all -- cleaning up the Project's mess.

You look up when the simulation trooper references you, and finally start paying real attention. A freelancer. So _that's_ why you've been tapped for this mission. The only emotion you've been capable of feeling over the past few months _(years maybe, sometimes you think it's the only emotion you've **ever** been able to feel)_ curls in your belly, and your pistol hangs heavy on your hip.

_'So you would say that you have overwhelming feelings of anger, and a need for revenge?'_

_'More than you know.'_

But of course the Meta has collected another AI. Omega. Tex's AI. The name paws at the back of your brain, scratching at all those nice little boxes you've stored four lifetimes of memories in.

No, you don't have _time_ for this. Not when you're having to deal with the worst soldiers you've ever laid eyes on. You know that the sim troopers are culled from the UNSC's rejects, but _Jesus._

Leaving Blood Gulch is a relief, or at least you think it is, until you pick up the Blue from Rat's Nest. Omega must have had a _field day_ in this idiot's head. At least he's taking you to someone more knowledgeable, even if that's an awfully low bar.

_'He knows all about your A.I. game. He dated Tex!'_

Tex. _Tex._ She was in your squad, top of the leaderboard, there was always something different about her, the way she was treated. The name _burns_ now and memories flash in your mind in a way they haven't in ages.

Tex. Texas. Beta. _Alli--_

Caboose yells in glee for _Church_ and your stomach lurches and it's wrong, it's not possible, Church is a common enough last name, and God _damn_ it you are supposed to be past all of this but all it takes is a few words, a few names, and everything is threatening to unravel.

No. _No,_ it doesn't matter. You have a fucking job to do. The Meta is killing Freelancers, and that is all that matters right now. You erect more walls in your mind, ignoring for now how flimsy they are. You have to take the Blues to Valhalla, to the crashed ship to look for clues, no matter what that might mean for your carefully rebuilt sanity.

Though it seems that currently, the largest threat to it is an overgrown child of a man angry about how you're speaking to a computer. Fuck, he's big. Hearing Tex's voice tries to throw you back, but you hold tightly onto the present.

It helps when your recovery beacon goes off, and that cold rage that lives in your gut starts forcing its way into your chest at South's name.

_'Yeah, she's in trouble Wash.'_

_'Yes. Yes, she is.'_

But then you see him. You see _it_ because it can't be _him,_ your mind won't even let you entertain the idea that it might be _him._ You don't have time to think about it _(there's so much you're refusing to think about and it's all starting to pile up and you just hope you can finish the mission before it all collapses under its own weight)_ because _it_ is shooting at you and the Blues are fucking _useless._ You don't care if it kills South _(you want to do it yourself)_ but you need to get to Delta.

_'Why didn't it kill us then?'_

You're scared you know the answer, that it's the same reason it left you the healing unit, and you're just so desperate for any other explanation but no one has one.

 _Not. Now. Wash._ You need to focus. And nothing in your life has ever helped as much as looking at South does right now.

_'Oh, come on, Wash. What're you gonna do, shoot--'_

_'Yes. Good suggestion.'_

It should feel good. It doesn't. Because you're standing over the corpse of a dead friend once again, and this time you're the one who pulled the trigger. You should feel guilt. Satisfaction. Remorse. Anything.

You feel nothing.

Except irritation when the Blues start talking again. It's become your default state when interacting with them. They use the slow, calm, holy-shit-I'm-talking-to-a-nutjob voice that you're far too familiar with, backing away and telling you to calm down. Two years. Two fucking years you had to deal with people talking to you like that, waiting for the moment you would explode and attack someone. It wasn't unjustified; most of the orderlies learned pretty quickly to not sneak up on you or touch you when you were in a panic. Or, if they were going to, make sure you were sedated _fast._ You broke limbs and noses, gave someone a concussion on a few occasions, and apparently tried to stab someone at one point.

Shame burns in your gut. That was the past. You're fine now.

_'You don't need to treat me like that. I'm not crazy, okay? I'm totally completely sane. … Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go blow up this dead body.'_

You're just being thorough. Your _job_ is to be thorough. But you know it doesn't help your case. Not that you really care; what these two idiots think of your delicate mental state is the last thing on your mind. And then you've got Delta bringing up the Alpha and your brain lights up with memories trying to escape, memories of _AlphaLeonardWashingtonEpsilonDavidWash--_

No. No no no _no_ you are not fucking _dealing_ with this right now. Not when--

_'Maine? How can that be? If--'_

_'Please confirm, Recovery One.'_

_'Yeah, it's him. It's the Meta.'_

It's him. It's _Maine._ He's killing freelancers he tried to kill you he _didn't_ kill you he's _going_ to _kill you--_

Your wrists are pinned above your head with one large hand, the other gently wraps around your throat, squeezing ever so slightly, his thumb stroking behind the curve of your jaw as he kisses you--

_No._

You're having to fight to cling to the present in a way you haven't had to since the hospital. Whatever that _thing_ is, it's not Maine, not anymore. He'd already been losing himself to Sigma, even before everything fell apart, and now he's got Eta and Iota and Omega and Theta in there too, there's not anything left of Maine.

That's what you have to tell yourself as the Blues lead you to the power plant after him. _It._ You grit your teeth as Delta, once again, tries to get into your head.

_'Statistically speaking, a Freelancer would be much better trained to use my--'_

_'I said no. Now get going.'_

Of all people, Delta should be able to understand why you are not, under any circumstances, _ever_ going to let another AI into your head. He _knows_ what happened to Epsilon, what happened to _you._ But… you can't hold it against him. He's not sympathy. He's logic. Alpha's logic.

_No._

It slams you against the wall _(he slams you against the wall, he lifts you and wraps your legs around his waist, he tells you how beautiful and good you are)_ and it leaves you there _(he **leaves** you there.)_

You lose the Meta and now you've got the fucking _Reds_ to deal with, Caboose is down, and the sim troopers, like the entire universe, are just making your job -- not to mention your whole fucking _life_ \-- more difficult.

Your vision tunnels to a nearby turret and you rip it off its mount.

_'Hi. Remember me?'_

You collapse onto Maine's chest, boneless and exhausted, and his arms wrap around you, holding you tight to him, he nuzzles into your hair and makes those strange purring sounds that you're pretty sure human vocal cords weren't designed to make, you laugh and tell him _you're going to kill me one of these days--_

_NO._

It gets away. You don't know if you're relieved or angry. You settle for angry. Caboose is down and Delta is gone and one of the Reds is yammering at you about a medic and you have to deal with all of this _horseshit_ because that is apparently your place in the universe, dealing with everyone else's _fuck ups_ and now Church is a hologram and--

Oh.

No.

No no no _no._

_'Wash, don't panic. We can explain.'_

Church. _AlphaLeonardEpsilon **Church.**_ It's him. It's him and you should have known, you should have seen, you didn't _want_ to see, but Delta _did,_ he wanted to tell you, that's why he wanted in your head so _fucking_ badly.

_'He said Wash would know.'_

_'Memory is the key.'_

Epsilon paces in your head, he doesn't sleep, so _you_ don't sleep, he tells you everything that was done to him, to you, to the others, to the _Alpha,_ he begs you _David, you have to do something you have to make him **pay** for what he's done--_

Yes.

Your name is Agent Washington. And you know exactly what needs to be done.

_'We're going to Command.'_

The trick is going to be getting there. You wish you could leave the sim troopers behind, but you know that you need them, so you put up with their perpetual Red and Blue nonsense. You put up with their continued refusal to just fucking follow orders.

You can't… exactly be mad at Church when he runs off, though. Tex is what started all of this, the reason any of you are here. He's chased her for so long, was already here once and couldn't find her, of course he'd go looking for her again. The pain and confusion in his voice when you find him in the base is far, far too familiar.

_'I know all about her, Church. Come on, you're not gonna find anything in here.'_

_'But where is she? She should be here right? I mean, shouldn't she?'_

_'We've all lost people, Church. What's important is that you remember her.'_

If you know how to do anything, it's remember.

You keep watch while the Reds and Blues sleep; you don't trust any of them to keep watch, and it's not like you could sleep anyway, even if you wanted to. All the memories, so many it feels like your head is going to explode, are now rattling lose in your mind, threatening to take over the way they used to.

You hold onto two things. One, your name is Agent Washington, your perpetual mantra, the one thing you've depended on for years to keep you grounded. Two, you now have the means to finally finish this. You finally have the evidence you promised Epsilon you would get, and all you need is one more piece.

You take Church down to storage. They pull at you as you search.

_'Washington.'_

_'Washington.'_

_'You suck.'_

You can't tell if it's their voices or the ones in your own head. But it doesn't matter right now. Because he's right here. Epsilon, still alive, trapped in a storage unit and you hope he's asleep somehow. You know what it's like to be trapped in your own head, in your own memories, and you already know what that's done to Epsilon.

_'Epsilon was its memories.'_

_'And memory is the key.'_

He reaches out to you, to Church. Desperate flashes, desperate begging to the both of you to save him, to finally, _finally_ put an end to all of this.

You had hoped that by now that Church would have connected the dots. You lay it all out for him, piece by piece, praying for him to understand.

_'Church, there's no such thing as ghosts. You're one of them. You're an AI. You… are the Alpha.'_

_'...'_

_'...'_

_'You're a fucking idiot.'_

You… should have been able to guess how stubborn he'd be.

Hopefully, it's irrelevant at the moment. It doesn't matter if he believes you, as long as he still goes along with your plan. He's so much like Epsilon, fighting you at every turn, that it's physically painful. Your skull hurts, pain rising from the perpetual ache that resides at the base of your skull, dug in deep beneath your implant site.

You _need_ him. He's the only one who can help you stop the Meta.

_'What's the matter? Daddy didn't love you enough?'_

And just like Epsilon, he's a fucking _asshole._

You give Epsilon to the sim troopers; you have no choice but to trust them now. They're your only chance at getting Epsilon out of here, of ending all of this, at finally getting justice for everyone hurt by Project Freelancer. All you need is the Alpha. Your suit is protected from E.M.P.s; it had to be for your armor equipment.

But he won't go.

_'It's your fight more than anyone else's!'_

_'I don't care what you say, no, it isn't.'_

At least… until the last moment.

Your heart stops as electrical impulses flow through the wires in your brain, a sensation you never thought you'd feel again and everything collapses around you, everything you've spent the past few weeks avoiding thinking about, everything you packed away in your mind for the last few years, every feeling, every memory, _everything._ Once again, you're losing yourself to it.

Once again, you have no idea who you are.

\--

You'd forgotten how slowly time passes inside your head.

You're curled in the fetal position, one arm hugging your knees, your other hand clenched in your hair. You're buried in the memories of four lives, memories of _AlphaLeonardWashingtonEpsilonDavidWash **Church**_ and you wonder if after everything, when you're so close to the end, if this is when you finally lose yourself.

“Holy _shit,_ dude.”

You'd forgotten what it's like to not be alone in here.

Someone is sifting through the memories, pushing them away, reaching through them down to you. “Come on, Wash. You guilted me into this bullshit, you don't get to call out with a case of the crazies _now.”_

He came for you. _Someone came back for you._

You grab his hand, let him pull you out of the chaos. You hold onto him, desperately trying to remember who you are, to grasp onto that _one thing_ you've spent years clinging to.

His voice is gentler than you've heard it in any life.

“Your name is Washington.”

Your name is Washington. And for the first time in years, you _trust._

\--

You make your way to the console, and a cold chill fills your gut when you hear _his_ voice.

_'I realize it has been a while since we've spoke, David. May I call you David?'_

_'No, you cannot. You gave me my new name, the least you can do is use it.'_

Your name is Washington.

_'I suggest you work with us if you want to survive this.'_

_'I'm sorry, did something about my actions indicate that I **expect** to survive this?'_

You're done. There's nothing left for you except to fulfill the promise you made to Epsilon years ago. To avenge your family, the family that _he_ destroyed.

_'It was Epsilon. He inherited the memories, didn't he?'_

_His_ memories. You knew everything, from his pain to your childhood to Alpha to Epsilon to _now._ And he's going to pay.

_'Program: disable interior shield.'_

_'What?'_

_'Agent Maine, please kill Agent Washington.'_

Pain runs through your shoulder, and once again, people who were supposed to help you, _care_ for you, are going to leave you for dead. Your partner _(lover,)_ your own--

_'You know Meta? Why wait? Why don't you meet him right now?'_

The Meta can't resist, it'll be enough of a distraction to--

Church's plan is suddenly clear. No, he can't, he'll die, he'd survive in your storage unit if _you_ died, but your suit won't be able to protect him if he goes into--

_'When the E.M.P. goes off--'_

_'When it goes off, I'll be fine. It only affects computers, remember? And I, am a motherfucking ghost.'_

You're being left again, but for the first time in your life, the person who's leaving is doing it _for you._

_'Agent Washington, please, there is time. If you would just secure Agent Maine, we can discuss this situation in a more civilized manner.'_

_'No. We can't.'_

This all has long been beyond talking. You're finishing this. For Epsilon. For Alpha. For York and North and Maine and Carolina. For _you._

_'Activating emp.'_

_**'Emp?** You have got to be fucking--'_

Your name is Washington, and even in your moment of triumph, you're reminded that this is is still how your fucking life works.

**Author's Note:**

> wash: brain no  
> wash's brain: BRAIN YASS
> 
> jfc formatting
> 
> There is more planned to follow, but it will take time.
> 
> Thanks for reading my nonsense.


End file.
